


Let's Burn Together

by 13Kat13



Series: These Rotten Scriptures [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: BAMF Katsuki Yuuri, BAMF Victor Nikiforov, Blood, Crime Husbands, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Forbidden Love, Happy Ending, M/M, Mafia Katsuki Yuuri, Mafia Victor Nikiforov, Organized Crime, Russian Mafia, Yakuza
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 06:57:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16511474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13Kat13/pseuds/13Kat13
Summary: The raw honesty in Victor’s voice has Yuuri pushing up to kiss him. Victor lets out a little broken moan that has just a hint too much sadness in it for Yuuri. And god Yuuri would unleash hell for this man. His feelings for Victor are too big for his body. They feel like something archaic, mythological in scale, written into his fate since the dawn of time. Like how the sun will inevitably burn out, so was Yuuri always supposed to meet Victor. To crash into him like stars colliding. Burning together. All consuming.[Yakuza royalty Katsuki Yuuri falls for his family's worst enemy; Pakhan of the Russian bratva, Victor Nikiforov. Their love would have to carve a new place in the crime underworld if they want to be together. And they're willing to burn it all to make it happen.]





	Let's Burn Together

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Masquerade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8565544) by [Ashida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashida/pseuds/Ashida). 



> So obviously everyone loves Ashida's Masquerade, the ultimate Mafia AU. Because I miss it a lot I had to write my own one. Thank you Ashida, you're doing god's work.

Getting stabbed doesn’t actually feel like getting stabbed. It’s more like being punched.

 

Yuuri has time to think about this as everything slows, and he looks down to see the knife being pulled from his stomach, silver flash, blood covered.

 

Yuuri sinks to his knees on the ground of some dingy alleyway in Saint Petersburg, Russia. And _no one_ has ever gotten the drop on him before now, but someone hit him with a tranq dart and his reactions are slow, sloppy. Someone cracks him on the side of the head with their gun and he goes to the floor.

 

He swims for a moment, the combination of the tranquilliser and the blow to his head making him woozy. Cold concrete at his back. Sick stomach. Pounding head.

 

Then the voice Yuuri knows so well is shouting in Russian, words he understands because he took the time to learn them. For him. Always for him.

 

The sound Victor makes when he sees Yuuri lying on the ground, motionless and covered in blood, is not a sound he ever wants to hear again. It’s a wounded moan of unimaginable pain.

 

It’s followed by the sound of gunshots, and six bodies hitting the ground in quick succession.

 

Victor just shot his own men for Yuuri.

 

But then, Yuuri has known for a while Victor would burn the world for him. Yuuri would do the same for him after all. And God help whoever came between them.

 

“Yuuri… Yuuri, no.”

 

Victor’s voice is cracked through with pain as he hurries to Yuuri’s side. He turns Yuuri’s head as Yuuri’s can’t seem to move himself.

 

“H-hey,” Yuuri manages to say, a smile on his lips.

 

Victor is just as beautiful as ever, moonlight hair and sapphire eyes. Sharp cheekbones and jawline, a face and body like someone reached into Yuuri’s mind and drew his perfect person into being.

 

“Oh god, _Yuuri,”_ Victor says, sounding both relieved and so very fearful. “We’ve — we’ve got to get you somewhere to stop the bleeding. Shit, there’s so much blood.”

 

Victor takes off his jacket and presses it to Yuuri’s stomach.

 

“Hit with… tranq…” Yuuri explains, slurring his words slightly with the drug still coursing through him.

 

“Explains why they were able to get the drop on you, my little firecracker.”

 

Victor heaves him into his arms and Yuuri lets out a hiss of pain.

 

“I’m sorry, my love, so sorry,” Victor’s murmuring as he runs with Yuuri down the alley, out to the SUV he has parked behind a dodgy strip club. Sirens are sounding in the distance.

 

Victor loads Yuuri into the passenger side and vaults over the hood to get to the driver’s side. The door slams and the engine roars to life, and then they’re off. Victor drives like he fears neither man nor god. Anything to get Yuuri help.

 

Yuuri’s slipping in and out of consciousness, the tranq taking effect as he struggles to keep his eyes open. He snaps awake when they screech to a stop hard enough that his body is thrown forward against his belt, the wound in his stomach screaming in protest.

 

“Fuck!”

 

“Shit, sorry, sorry.”

 

Victor hurries to unbuckle himself and open the door, then he’s opening Yuuri’s door so fast Yuuri barely had time to see him move. Then Yuuri’s being gently lifted into his arms, the only place he’s ever truly belonged.

 

Victor runs to the backdoor of what looks like a restaurant, but must be more from the completely unphased look of the man who opens the door for them.

 

“He’s upstairs,” the man says, stepping aside for them.

 

Yuuri has the vague impression of a kitchen, of a hallway, but he’s slipping again. Next thing he knows he’s being laid out on a table, and an Asian man with a frown and thick eyebrows is leaning over him, examining his wound.

 

“I’ll have to work fast,” the man says, and turns to wash his hands with quick, practiced movements.

 

“I’ll pay double your usual rate,” Victor says from where he’s standing on Yuuri’s other side, holding his hand, looking at him rather than the back alley surgeon. “Whatever it takes.”

 

The surgeon just hums and returns to Yuuri side, snapping rubber gloves into place.

 

“I don’t want to give him anestesia if he’s already had tranquilisers,” the surgeon says. “So I’m going to need you to hold him down.”

 

“Yuuri can take it,” Victor says resolutely.

 

“If you say so.”

 

Being stitched back together _does_ feel like being stitched back together. But Yuuri doesn’t scream or writhe. He grits his teeth and breathes through it. He knows how to do this for himself, but the wound is too deep and a surface stitching wouldn’t do. They need to be sure all the internal bleeding has stopped.

 

Victor holds his hand throughout it, and Yuuri tries not to break his fingers.

 

By the end of it the surgeon’s hands are covered in blood and Yuuri is feeling dizzy.

 

“He should be fine,” the man says, snapping his gloves off and tossing them in a bin.

 

“Thank you, Seung-Gil,” Victor says earnestly. “You know what it is for me to owe a favour. You’re in a very privileged position. It would be a shame to have that and more taken away if you tell anyone about me bringing Yuuri here.”

 

Seung-Gil seems to read everything he needs to in Victor’s face and he nods. Yuuri can’t help the little thrill of arousal even with the amount of pain that he‘s in. He’s never seen violence look as sexy as when Victor wears it.

 

Seung-Gil gives Victor a bottle of pills to help with the pain, and then Yuuri’s back in Victor’s arms again.

 

“Let’s get you somewhere safe, love,” Victor says, quietly enough for only Yuuri to hear as he strides from the room.

 

Somewhere safe turns out to be a hotel that asks no questions in the backstreets of Saint Petersburg. The staff all turn a blind eye to Victor carrying Yuuri in through the back entrance, despite the sheer amount of blood on them both.

 

Yuuri fades out again and reawakens in bed, Victor undressing him carefully. Yuuri lets out a little moan as Victor manages to get his ruined shirt off him.

 

“Shhh, shh, I’m sorry, love.”

 

Victor’s voice is the best painkiller in the world, and Yuuri lets it tug him back down to the bed, lets himself drift. He feels a cool cloth against his skin as Victor cleans him best he can without a shower.

 

Then Victor’s climbing into bed beside him, but Yuuri’s only barely awake.

 

“Sleep, my love.”

 

And never had those words held such a sense of safety, of peace, for Yuuri, as when they come from Victor. He welcomes them, lets them lace through him like a sedative. And sinks.

 

* * *

 

Victor and Yuuri meet for the first time when Yuuri’s nineteen, on neutral ground. They’re at a party hosted by Phichit Chulanont, who is a mercenary hacker, taking no sides unless it’s Yuuri’s.

 

Yuuri’s pleasantly buzzed but not overly so, when he spots the man who takes his breath away as effectively as a punch to the stomach.

 

Victor Nikiforov is even more beautiful than the photos Yuuri’s family have for surveillance. His suit is devastatingly sharp, a black so dark it whispers of oblivion, and a shirt so white it makes the idea of bloodshed seem impossible. He’s just taken over as the head of the bratva from his father, and he looks every inch the pakhan he is. There were some who weren’t happy about it of course, but Victor has wrangled his men into perfect obedience through sharp planning, ruthless skill, and just the right amount of mercy to earn respect and fear in equal measure. Even Yuuri’s father has a begrudging respect for him, despite the bad blood between their groups.

 

Victor is standing on a raised part of the ballroom, where there’s slightly removed seating areas for discussions best kept in quiet corners. He has a hand on the glass wall surrounding the area, the other holding a champagne flute as he surveys the crowd.

 

And then his eyes find Yuuri’s, and the shock is like lightning up Yuuri’s spine. Yuuri blinks, but refuses to be the one to look away first. After a moment, a slow, lazy smirk unfurls across Victor’s lips. Yuuri blushes, but it’s still Victor who looks away first as a man with blonde curls and a brunette undercut comes and touches his elbow.

 

Yuuri releases a long exhale and takes a large gulp of champagne.

 

Victor finds him five minutes later.

 

“You know,” his slow, almost arrogant drawl says from behind Yuuri, who spins to face him fast enough that Victor raises his eyebrows, “with a suit that sharp it’s almost as though you’re waiting for someone to ask you to dance.”

 

“Perhaps I am,” Yuuri returns, the hint of a challenge in his gaze.

 

Victor laughs, and Yuuri feels the buzz of it better than any champagne bubbles.

 

“I’m afraid we couldn’t, mon petit fleur,” Victor says, swirling his champagne before bringing it to his lips, though he does not sip, watching Yuuri instead. “Too many eyes, too many whispers. But polite conversation? Quite acceptable I think.”

 

“Quite,” Yuuri agrees.

 

Later, after Yuuri and Victor have been drawn apart by other demands, though their eyes keep returning to each other, they find each other on a secluded balcony, a few floors above the party.

 

“Do you know what you’re getting into, mon petit fleur?” Victor asks, tilting Yuuri’s chin up to run his thumb over Yuuri’s bottom lip.

 

“I do,” Yuuri returns, and smacks Victor’s hand away, taking a step back. “And there’s nothing _petit_ about me.”

 

Victor’s grin spreads slow as syrup, and then he laughs, the sound better than the sweetest music.

 

“No I suspect not,” he agrees, then refocuses on Yuuri with a quiet intensity that Yuuri struggles not to fidget under. “Hmm… perhaps, solnyshko? No not quite... moya zvezda. That’s more like it.”

 

Victor hums, his gaze raking Yuuri’s features. Yuuri refuses to ask what the nickname means. He’s been learning bits of Russian, but not enough for cutesy names.

 

“And you?” Yuuri asks, letting his eyes drag up and down Victor’s body in a carefully crafted look of only partial interest, nothing too captivating. Victor looks thrilled by it.

 

“Oh you can just call me Vitya,” Victor says. “Maybe even Vityenka if the mood takes you.”

 

“Hmm… Vitya,” Yuuri tries the name, and is delighted to see he’s able to make the Pakhan of the Russian bratva blush. “Yes, it’ll do.”

 

“Oh you are just delicious,” Victor says, with the hint of a growl in his words as he steps closer.

 

“Careful,” Yuuri says, tilting his chin up and leaning in just so, letting his mouth fall open a little. “I bite back.”

 

And then Victor’s kissing him. Hot, hurried, and deep, Yuuri getting pushed up against the railing, Victor’s hands on his waist, his hands in Victor’s hair.

 

They have to arrive at the hotel Victor hastily books separately, but as soon as the door closes behind Victor, Yuuri’s on him. Victor lets out a muffled huff as his back hits the door. It turns into a groan as Yuuri grinds against him.

 

Then Yuuri steps back, arches a brow at Victor’s beautifully dishevelled state.

 

“I fancy a drink,” he says, and turns and walks further into the room.

 

There’s a growl from behind him, and Yuuri grins before Victor’s body collides with his.

 

“Tease,” Victor bites into his neck.

 

“Never,” Yuuri returns, and bends over, pushing his backside into Victor’s crotch as he inspects the whisky selection in the cupboard.

 

Victor hisses out what sounds like a curse in Russian, and grips his hips.

 

“You _might_ be able to get what you want after we’ve got to know each other a little bit,” Yuuri says, selecting a Speyside whisky from the collection and two tumblers.

 

He moves away to get ice, pours them each a measure, raises his eyebrows at Victor, and then saunters over to the coach.

 

The room is very nice. Very Victor from what Yuuri knows about him. All lavish furnishings, big sweeping windows which are only visible through translucent, white blinds, stone coloured walls leading up to gilded cornices, and all of it smelling faintly of vanilla.

 

Yuuri settles himself on the plush couch cushions, kicking off his shoes as he does. Victor considers him for a moment, a smirk on his lips. He looks halfway in love already, and that can’t bode well. They would have to wrought hell on earth to conquer two mafias as powerful as the ones they come from for such a love. But Yuuri’s already falling as well. Perhaps already started the first time he saw Victor’s grainy black and white photo in that fateful file.

 

Victor comes and joins him on the couch, accepts the tumbler of whisky. They are close, teasingly so, and Victor lays a possessive hand on Yuuri’s thigh. Yuuri purses his lips a little at that and Victor laughs.

 

“So, Katsuki Yuuri,” Victor starts, “what do you want to know about me?”

 

“Well,” Yuuri says slowly. “I know all the information my family would think important. But I want to know the other stuff.”

 

“Other stuff?” Victor asks, looking amused.

 

“Yes,” Yuuri agrees. “Like… where would you go if you could go anywhere in the world?”

 

Victor laughs, apparently finding Yuuri endlessly entertaining.

 

“Oh, Yuuri,” Victor sighs, gazing at him with an almost dreamy look about him. “You are a wonderful surprise.”

 

“I’m sure,” Yuuri agrees, and takes a sip of his whisky, not missing the way Victor drinks in the sight of his throat as he swallows.

 

“The place I’d visit…” Victor says after a moment, looking like he’s actually considering it. “I like the idea of mountains and lakes, as nice as beaches are. I think maybe Bled in Slovenia, though I like the idea of Yellowstone National Park. Not sure how well I’d get along with the locals though as a gay foreigner with a Russian accent.”

 

Yuuri toasts to this.

 

“I’ve visited,” he explains, though Victor nods like he already knows this, and Yuuri knows it’s because the bratva watches them too. “They do very odd things to food. Also kept calling me Chinese.”

 

Victor chuckles and nods again.

 

“How about you, my Yuuri?”

 

Yuuri tries not to be so affected by being called Victor’s Yuuri, instead taking a sip of whisky to buy himself time.

 

“I think,” he says after a moment, “maybe Switzerland. I like mountains too. And snow.”

 

“Well, you should come to Saint Petersburg if you want snow,” Victor teases, making Yuuri roll his eyes.

 

They chat for a little while longer, and though the heat between them only seems to grow, the conversation stays light. It’s easy. Comfortable. Like they’ve two halves of the same piece only just finding each other now. Eventually Yuuri stands.

 

“Well,” he says, tilting his hips just so as he considers his empty glass. “My drink dried up a while ago and I think I could do with lying down. All that champagne, you know.”

 

“Indeed,” Victor agrees, standing also. “Perhaps something to help you unwind? A massage?”

 

Yuuri smirks at him as he turns away.

 

“You presume too much, Mr Nikiforov,” he calls over his shoulder. “...Perhaps I could be convinced however.”

 

He reaches the bed and feels Victor at his back instantly.

 

“Perhaps I should just touch you everywhere even without a massage,” his voice purrs into Yuuri’s ear.

 

Yuuri feels the smile against his neck as he shivers, Victor clearly pleased at his effect.

 

“I think that’d be a good idea,” Yuuri replies, voice just breathy enough that Victor squeezes his hips. “The last thing I want to do is relax.”

 

Victor spins him round and kisses him deep and hot, as dangerously as what they’re doing is. It’s passionate and messy and makes Yuuri weak in the knees, so he bites Victor’s bottom lip in revenge. Victor moans and kisses him more fervently, before pushing him back onto the bed. Yuuri goes down and bounces once before Victor’s on him.

 

Victor pushes his jacket off and pauses as Yuuri’s guns are exposed.

 

“Nice,” Victor comments, thumbing one of the silver glocks. Yuuri shivers. No one’s allowed to touch his weapons. _No one._

 

“Take them off,” he demands, and Victor looks up to meet his gaze. Victor reads what that means then. Him, leader of the Russian bratva, the yakuza’s number one rival, unarming Yuuri, the son of the yakuza head. There’s mafia royalty in this room, and they’re willing to expose themselves to each other in more ways than one. The thought of it makes Yuuri shudder with desire.

 

Victor is respectfully quiet as he unbuckles Yuuri’s holster. Yuuri shifts to help him slip it off. Then Victor shrugs his jacket off. Yuuri snorts.

 

Victor’s magnums are, predictably, gold.

 

“And just what is so funny?” Victor asks, a smile of his own uncurling as Yuuri giggles.

 

“Only you,” Yuuri laughs, reaching forward to touch the metal, “would have gold guns, Victor Nikiforov.”

 

Victor just shrugs and grins. Then his smile grows softer.

 

“Go ahead.”

 

Yuuri bites his lip as he pushes the straps free of their buckles. It’s so intimate. Incredibly arousing. Undressing Victor Nikiforov of not just his suit, but his defences. Every one of them.

 

The guns thunk to the floor. Victor goes to kiss him again but Yuuri moves away to push himself higher up the bed.

 

He holds a foot out, presses it to Victor’s chest to stop him advancing after him.

 

“Take off my socks,” Yuuri says, a gentle yet firm command that has Victor’s eyes alighting with fire.

 

Victor does as he’s told, and Yuuri feels the thrill of having the most powerful man in Russia do his bidding. Victor kisses up his foot, over the arch of his ankle and Yuuri thinks that maybe he just discovered Victor’s foot fetish.

 

But they can explore that later, right now Yuuri’s busy unbuttoning his shirt and he wants Victor to be the one to do it.

 

“Vitya.”

 

The word is a soft command, and it has Victor hurrying to undo Yuuri’s buttons, eager in his movements. When Yuuri’s free of the shirt, Victor can only stare.

 

“Yuuri…”

 

Victor’s hands are gentle as he turns Yuuri over onto his stomach. The ink on Yuuri’s back is impressive. A beautiful piece of art. The curves of a dragon cover him from neck to the tops of his thighs. It’s why they call him Red Dragon. That and because if you get too close you’ll get burned. The dragon has grey smoke curling around it, and orange ranunculus flowers bloom down the edges, curling round to his ribs where the ink stops.

 

“You’re stunning,” Victor says on an exhale.

 

Yuuri hums, pleased. Victor leans down and Yuuri feels him press his lips to the skin of his back. It makes Yuuri shiver and arch, press his crotch into the mattress. Victor takes his time, as though he’s savoring that he’s allowed to do this. After a little while though, Yuuri wiggles impatiently. Victor chuckles.

 

“Alright, moya zvezda.”

 

Victor rolls him back over and undoes his belt. Yuuri reaches up as he works, slips Victor’s buttons free, revelling in the creamy skin exposed to him. He lays his hand against Victor’s chest, and it’s like a gold sun in a white sky.

 

Victor’s paused in his task, watching Yuuri watch him. Yuuri looks up to see a smile that’s far too fond on his lips. He shouldn’t look at Yuuri like that. Not if they want to get out of this alive.

 

Yuuri tries to tell himself it’s just for tonight.

 

Eventually they’re free of all their clothes, even Yuuri’s lace panties which Victor was absolutely delighted by, and Yuuri lies back against the sheets, letting out a slow breath as he takes in the sight of Victor. Victor’s watching him, and he seems to read everything in Yuuri’s face. Yuuri’s never thought of himself as easy to read, but apparently to Victor he’s an open book.

 

“You haven’t done this before, have you?” Victor guesses.

 

Yuuri flushes and shakes his head. He never found someone interesting enough to be willing to let them get this close.

 

A slow smile spreads across Victor’s lips.

 

“Oh, Yuuri,” he rumbles, and leans forward to kiss him, gentle, reverent. Then speaks against his lips. “To think I’d be the one you’d give this to… it’s more than I could ever ask for.”

 

“But you should ask,” Yuuri returns, smooths his hands down Victor’s chest, feels how firm and warm it is. “Because for you? I’d give it all.”

 

Victor groans, and Yuuri knows his words are their undoing, that it could never have just been tonight. Not since their eyes first met across that ballroom.

 

Victor kisses him deeply for a moment, pouring out his adoration into Yuuri’s mouth. His fringe brushes Yuuri’s cheek and Yuuri tangles his fingers into it. Then Victor reaches out for his discarded trousers and roots around in the pocket, pulling out a couple of condoms and a few sachets of lube.

 

“I picked them up on the way over,” Victor says in answer to Yuuri’s raised eyebrows. “I don’t just carry them around with me.”

 

“If you say so.”

 

Victor pokes him in the ribs, making Yuuri squeak and hit him with a pillow. They get briefly distracted by this impromptu pillow fight, and oh it’s so good, to be silly and themselves and just perfect. No straight faced masks, just laughter and then deep, slow kisses as they get back to it.

 

Victor opens Yuuri up slowly, diligently. Yuuri gasps when the first finger enters him. He’s tried this on himself, but somehow Victor’s fingers reach deeper, and the feeling is so intimate that Yuuri has to shut his eyes.

 

“No,” Victor says, and cups his cheek in such a painfully tender way Yuuri chokes on the feeling of it. “I want to see you.”

 

Yuuri opens his eyes obediently, and watches the intense look of arousal as Victor hovers over him, watching Yuuri’s face as he comes apart from the slow thrusting of Victor’s finger inside him.

 

One finger becomes two, thrusting and twisting until Yuuri’s panting and writhing.

 

“Vitya,” he gasps, the hint of a whine in his voice. “V-Vitya. I —”

 

Victor hums and slips his fingers free. He goes to tear the condom open, but Yuuri catches his wrist.

 

“Have you been tested?” he asks.

 

Victor nods slowly, looking hungry.

 

“All clean?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well you know I’m clean,” Yuuri says, letting his arm fall back to the bed. “A virgin and not into needles unless they’re for ink. If we’re both clean…”

 

“You trust me that much?” Victor asks, and the desire makes his voice raw, the look in his eyes something primal in its wanting. Blue fire. Hot enough to consume.

 

“With this at least,” Yuuri replies, smirking up at him. “I think you’re far too classy to lie about such things, Mr Nikiforov.”

 

Victor bites his lip and tosses the condom to the side.

 

“I want to feel you fully for my first time,” Yuuri explains as Victor crawls over him.

 

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me, moya zvezda,” Victor says, voice a little ragged as he gazes down at Yuuri, and Yuuri feels like his eyes are black holes waiting to swallow him.

 

“Oh I think I have some idea,” Yuuri retorts, and reaches down to stroke Victor’s cock.

 

Victor swears, then he’s planting a hand on Yuuri’s thigh and pushing it back to open him up more. Victor kisses him deeply, and then moves back a little so he can watch his face as he pushes in.

 

Victor’s done a very good job of preparing him, and takes it slow, so it doesn’t hurt exactly, but it’s not comfortable either. Yuuri presses his lips together in a thin line as he tries to decide how he feels about it. He’s trying to keep himself relaxed as he knows that’ll make it easier.

 

When Victor’s fully seated, he pauses.

 

“Okay?” he asks, and Yuuri sees the slight tremor in his arms, sees how he’s holding himself back from slamming into Yuuri repeatedly.

 

“Yes,” Yuuri replies, and as he says it he realises that it’s true.

 

He’d been so focused on trying to breath through the initial stretch that he forgot to take notice of how _good_ it feels.

 

“Oh…” Yuuri breaths as he realises what he’s feeling, the heat pooling in his groin, his stomach.

 

“Yeah?” Victor says with a grin.

 

“Yes,” Yuuri hisses, and grips Victor’s hip with one hand, encouraging him to move.

 

Victor does so, in achingly slow rolls of his hips. Each thrust in is deep enough that Yuuri’s toes curl with it, and he throws his head back, panting with the feeling of it. He’s so fucking _full._

 

“Vitya…” he moans, and he’s surprised at how wrecked his own voice is.

 

“God, Yuuri…” is Victor’s responding moan as he continues to fuck in with those agonisingly slow thrusts, his head falling forward onto Yuuri’s shoulder.

 

“Fuck, you’re so big,” Yuuri gasps, which has Victor chuckling.

 

“In a good way?” he asks, moving back to take in Yuuri’s flushed face.

 

_“Yess…”_

 

Yuuri’s hiss is paired with him gripping Victor’s hip tighter, encouraging him to move faster.

 

“What is it you want, Yuuri?” Victor asks, laughter in his voice as he watches Yuuri wriggle, still fucking him slow and deep.

 

“Fuck, Vitya, don’t be a twat,” Yuuri bites out, then moans as a shudder rolls through him at Victor pegging that spot inside him so well.

 

“As you wish,” Victor laughs, and leans up on his hands.

 

Then he fucks into Yuuri so hard that Yuuri lets out a wail that sounds a lot like Victor’s name.

 

Victor sets up a brutal pace, making Yuuri arch his back as he lets out a litany of “ah, ah, ah, ah,” in time with Victor nailing his prostate.

 

“God, Yuuri you feel so _good,”_ Victor growls, and Yuuri loves him sounding so broken for him.

 

“Fuck, Vitya, ah, ah,” is all Yuuri can say in reply.

 

After a little while of these bed shaking thrusts, Victor picks Yuuri up and sits back onto his heels. Yuuri eyes go wide and he lets out an “ah!” at being so impaled on Victor’s cock.

 

He feels split open, stretched deliciously full in a way that has him hungry for more.

 

He’s putty in Victor’s hands as the man holds his body steady to fuck up into him. Yuuri’s neck goes limp, his head flopping back as his hands try to keep their grip on Victor’s shoulders.

 

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful, Yuuri, I didn’t know… never knew until tonight… god, you make me want such things…”

 

These are dangerous words, but Yuuri’s already thrown himself off that particular metaphorical cliff, and if this is Victor breaking on the rocks with him then so be it.

 

“You can have them,” Yuuri sobs, falling forward so he’s draped over Victor’s shoulders as he gets repeatedly fucked open. “You can have it all.”

 

 _“Yess…”_ Victor hisses, and bites down on his neck, gentle but with just the right amount of pressure to have Yuuri arching into him.

 

“Vitya, Vitya, I’m going to…”

 

“Yes, come for me Yuuri.”

 

And Victor lays him back down on the sheets so he can continue to fuck him deep and hard as he takes Yuuri’s cock into his hand. It doesn’t take long for Yuuri to see stars, and he cries out Victor’s name among a string of Japanese curses.

 

The sight and feel and sound of Yuuri coming apart apparently does it for Victor, as he thrusts deep and grinds as his body locks with it, groaning out Yuuri’s name before his mouth goes slack.

 

They ride it out together, hips losing their rhythm as they roll through their climaxes. Yuuri feels like he’s been tipped off a precipice into wide open space, like with the slightest touch he’ll fly apart into a million pieces, like Victor’s weight on top of him is the only thing keeping him together.

 

Yuuri’s trembling as he comes down, and he can feel Victor’s arms shaking above him. They slow to a stop. Victor kisses him long and deep, before he pulls out and flops down to the side.

 

They lay there panting, before Victor hefts himself up onto one elbow to look at Yuuri. Yuuri opens one eye to look at him.

 

“What?” he asks.

 

“Nothing,” Victor replies, looking happier than Yuuri’s ever seen him in any of those many, many photographs. “Everything.”

 

“Psh, idiot,” Yuuri says to hide the blush on his cheeks.

 

Victor laughs, fond. Then —

 

“You’re beautiful.”

 

“So you’ve said,” Yuuri returns, trying to sass his way out of being a flustered, blushing wreck.

 

“Because it’s true,” Victor tells him, sounding very sincere. “And you deserve telling.”

 

Yuuri’s mouth pulls down then.

 

“How do you know what I deserve?”

 

Victor blinks at this, then reaches out and trails his hand down Yuuri’s cheek. Yuuri fails spectacularly at trying not to lean into it.

 

“I’ve done my research, Katsuki Yuuri,” Victor says, voice quiet. “I have a horrible feeling I’d think you worthy of praise even if you stabbed me in the chest right now.”

 

“What a dangerous feeling that is for ones such as us to have,” Yuuri breaths, rolling to face Victor.

 

“The most dangerous,” Victor agrees. “I think I may be willing to risk it.”

 

“Me too,” Yuuri agrees, without hesitation, without thought.

 

They take a long bath together after that, then return to bed, though they don’t sleep. Yuuri lays between Victor’s legs with his back to his chest, Victor playing with his fingers as they chat, or sometimes they just bask in the feeling of being together. They shouldn’t feel as deeply as they already do, it’s only been one night. But like the waves are drawn by the moon, so are they to each other. Falling into orbit, easy as gravity.

 

In the morning they have breakfast together, still playing at normal. They redress each other, take time to put their shells back on. And it’s like a physical pain in Yuuri’s chest.

 

He says goodbye to Victor at the door, kisses him before he opens it and walks away, feels Victor’s eyes on his back.

 

_And it’s like a physical pain in Yuuri’s chest._

 

* * *

 

The years following are difficult. They fall in love quickly and all at once, like an oil soaked rope catching light.

 

The most difficult day is the one two years in when Yuuri breaks down and tries to end it all. It’s pouring when it happens, and Yuuri almost laughs at the perfect Hollywood movie effect that the rain has on the scene. The docks they’re standing on are dark and empty. It’s clear Yuuri’s crying even with the rain, because his face is all screwed up and he’s heaving breaths that are more like sobs.

 

“I _can’t,_ Vitya.” And his voice is a broken, pathetic thing, wavering with uncertainty that he’s never once had.

 

Victor takes a step forward, his silver hair turned a dark grey by the water, still looking stunning even though they’re both half drowned by the downpour.

 

“You do not mean that,” he says, and takes another step forward, which is when Yuuri pulls a gun on him.

 

“Don’t,” he says, and it’s meant to be an order, but it sounds more like a plea.

 

His lip trembles, and they regard each other for a long moment. Then Yuuri lets out a sob and his shoulders droop. The gun falls against his thigh as he drops his arm.

 

Victor’s arms are around him in an instant, and Yuuri howls with it.

 

“You had Riku killed,” Yuuri sobs, though they both know that’s not the real reason. The real reason comes on the next shuddery breath. “I love you and this is so _hard.”_

 

“I know, moya zvezda,” Victor murmures into his hair, squeezing him close. “I know.”

 

They manage to spend only one Valentine’s Day together, and Yuuri puts on something pretty just for the occasion. A red negligee that Victor quickly tears in his haste to fuck Yuuri silly.

 

And each time they meet it’s like coming home. And each time they leave it’s like tearing their hearts out with their own hands.

 

Victor asks a couple of times, but Yuuri’s hesitant, fearful.

 

After four long years of having to say goodbye to each other, only meeting three or four times a year, Yuuri finally agrees to run with Victor on a rainy evening in January.

 

They’re bundled up in front of the fire in Victor’s flat in London together, warm in their blanket cocoon though it’s cold outside. The rings they only ever wear on chains around their necks securely on their fingers while they’re together. Because those rings are a promise of one day spending the rest of their lives together, of never having to say goodbye again.

 

Yuuri is on his front, sipping on a glass of ruby red wine as Victor lays his worship out in the form of kisses along Yuuri’s spine, along his tattoo.

 

“Come with me,” Victor whispers against his skin like a prayer.

 

It’s not the first time he’s asked and Yuuri closes his eyes against the roar of pain in his chest at having to say no.

 

“I cannot say goodbye to you again,” Victor says. “It hurts too much. Yuuri, please.”

 

Victor Nikiforov does not beg for anything or anyone. Only ever Yuuri. Yuuri rolls onto his back.

 

“You mean you’d leave me if I say no?” he asks, his wine glass forgotten as something like screaming buzzes in his ears and the panic makes his breaths short.

 

“What? No, of course not!”

 

Victor looks stricken and hurries to lean over Yuuri, plants his elbows just above Yuuri’s shoulders so he’s staring down at him, caging Yuuri in. It makes Yuuri feel immensely safe, though he should be the least safe with Victor.

 

“Yuuri, I would never, could never leave you,” Victor says with such heartfelt earnestness that Yuuri feels it like a punch to the diaphragm. “I would just… I think I’d die.”

 

The raw honesty in Victor’s voice has Yuuri pushing up to kiss him. Victor lets out a little broken moan that has just a hint too much sadness in it for Yuuri. And god Yuuri would unleash hell for this man. His feelings for Victor are too big for his body. They feel like something archaic, mythological in scale, written into his fate since the dawn of time. Like how the sun will inevitably burn out, so was Yuuri always supposed to meet Victor. To crash into him like stars colliding. Burning together. All consuming.

 

“Okay,” Yuuri whispers against his lips when they break apart, his hand on Victor’s cheek. “Okay.”

 

“Okay you’ll come with me?” Victor asks, moving back a little to take in Yuuri’s expression. Yuuri grins at him.

 

“Yes, I’ll come with you.”

 

Yuuri is instantly tackled to the duvet they’ve laid out beneath them by six feet of Russian man. He laughs, strong enough to take it, and lets Victor kiss him all over.

 

* * *

 

They meet two days later in Saint Petersburg. The black SUV screams mafia, but it’s armour plated so Yuuri’s not complaining. It’s miraculously fast to have everything prepared by, but Yuuri thinks Victor may have been planning this for a while. He greets Yuuri at the crossroads outside the city with a searing kiss, burning with happiness. They grin giddily at each other when they part.

 

It’s a shame Victor didn’t notice he was being tailed.

 

He’s gone round to the drivers side door when Yuuri hears running footfalls behind him. He moves just in time.

 

A streak of blonde hair and leopard print go streaking past him in a flying kick which was aimed at his spine. Yuri Plisetsky catches himself against the SUV and gathers himself with a snarl.

 

Yuuri recognises Plisetsky from a meeting he and Victor had where they still had to wear their masks. In a warehouse in China, their men looking on and Yuuri at a loss as to why no one could see it, the way Victor stared at him with such hunger.

 

Yuri flies at Yuuri with enough fury to burn a lesser man. But Yuuri counters almost lazily, looking bored in a way that makes Plisetsky snarl again as he redoubles his attempts to land a hit.

 

“Yura!”

 

Victor’s voice is like a whip crack, but it doesn’t stop the teen from drawing a knife and plunging it towards Yuuri’s chest. There’s a bang of a gunshot, and Yuri ducks on instinct, spinning round but keeping an eye on Yuuri.

 

Victor’s got his gun raised in the air, but he lowers it, still smoking with the warning shot he just fired. He points it squarely between Yuri’s eyes as he rounds the car.

 

“Hey, Yura,” he says cooly, a smile on his lips that is so cold Yuuri feels the thrill of it up his spine. He bites his lip. Fuck Victor’s hot. “Fancy seeing you here.”

 

“Wanker,” Yuri snarls, then switches to rapid fire Russian that Yuuri understands perfectly. _“What the hell are you playing at, Victor? Running around with this pig while the rest of the bratva scramble to organise themselves in your absence.”_

 

 _“I left Yakov in charge,”_ Victor says, still with that cool smile. _“He’s perfectly capable.”_

 

Yuri scoffs, then jerks a thumb at Yuuri.

 

_“But you’re planning to leave for longer aren’t you? Running off with this whore.”_

 

Yuuri had been about to punch Yuri in the side of the head, but Victor crosses to him so fast that Yuuri is again visited by the thrill of seeing Victor’s violent side. He loves it more than any sane person should.

 

Victor fastens a hand around Yuri’s throat and squeezes hard enough to have the boy choking, scrabbling at his hand as he drops the knife.

 

_“Call him a whore again, call him anything but his name, and I. Will. End. You.”_

 

It’s a promise, clear as day. And Yuri manages to hiss out an agreement as Victor loosens his hand just enough. Yuri slips away as soon as he’s able, coughing and rubbing his throat as he glares at Victor.

 

Victor comes over to Yuuri and loops and arm around his waist. He doesn’t ask if Yuuri’s okay or anything silly like that. Yuuri’s always been able to take care of himself. He just gives him such a fond look of adoration that Yuuri feels the smile spreading across his lips without his permission. Because this is new, doing this in front of someone else. Yuri Plisetsky just became the first person to fully know their secret.

 

Yuuri turns his head to look back at Yuri, who’s gone very still as he takes in this scene. It was clear he thought of Yuuri as some kind of play thing, a pet not a partner. Now he looks to be reevaluating the situation, and his expression flickers from surprise, to disgust, to fury.

 

 _“So where are you going?”_ Yuri asks then.

 

 _“Far away,”_ Victor replies, not looking away from Yuuri as he speaks.

 

 _“Well duh,”_ Yuri huffs, rolling his eyes. _“I meant where specifically.”_

 

 _“Why?”_ Victor asks, turning to look at him again.

 

 _“Because I’m coming too,”_ Yuri says, making Victor’s eyebrows creep towards his hairline.

 

_“Why would you want to come to a remote little cabin in the middle of bumfuck nowhere?”_

 

_“Because that may be your initial plan, but you can’t sit idly by, Victor. You may want the quiet life when you’re old and actually grey, but you thrive off danger. I’ve known you for six years, you can’t lie to me.”_

 

Victor looks pleasantly surprised and chuckles.

 

_“Okay so we’re going to run a little operation on the side, but I swear the main plan is to grow vegetables and maybe keep a few chickens.”_

 

Yuri snorts and throws open the door of the SUV.

 

_“If there’s not an armoury under the chicken coop I’ll eat my boots.”_

 

Victor laughs at that and looks down to Yuuri.

 

“What do you think, moya zvezda?” Victor asks. “If Yuri followed us here others can track us. Getting him to go back would take time, letting him come with will be easier.”

 

“So now we have a child?” Yuuri asks arching an eyebrow at Victor and turning to face him properly. “Well I pictured our first child as younger, less anger issues, but we can work with it.”

 

Victor laughs, and then he seems to glow as he realises Yuuri wants a family with him.

 

“Steady on there, cowboy,” Yuuri says, planting a hand on Victor’s chest. “Let’s just make sure we’re safe enough before we talk children.”

 

“Anything for you, moya zvezda.”

 

* * *

 

The initial get out is rather bloody. Others find them in the hotel they stop at on the side of the highway. Yuuri hears them first, and as Victor and Yuri are reaching for the guns stashed under their pillows, Yuuri’s already slipping from the room.

 

He’s still dressed in the black turtleneck and jeans he wore in the day, him being the one on watch. The fact that he’s not shot on sight is evidence enough that they want him alive to drag back to his family. They don’t react when Yuuri runs towards them, apparently unarmed.

 

As he reaches them though he can see the dawning horror on their faces as they take in his expression. The Red Dragon flies tonight and all shall burn.

 

Yuuri slips his tanto knives free and plunges one into the throat of the first man before he even moves. He’s cut down three of them before the last two manage to take in what’s happening.

 

Yuuri hears Yuri say “what the fuck?” from back towards the hotel room and laughs, felling another one by slamming his knife up below his ribs before the last one tries to flee. Yuuri darts after him, plants a hand on his shoulder and does a clean flip over him so the man stumbles to the floor. Yuuri lands and slashes both knives in a closing X across the man’s throat.

 

Victor and Yuri are drawing the fire of the men from the other car. It gives Yuuri time to reach them, and the bullets from the pair stop so as not to hit him as Yuuri reaches the car where the men are taking refuge behind the open doors.

 

They fall like freshly harvested wheat.

 

Yuuri comes back to the room absolutely covered in blood, has a moment to take in Yuri’s stunned expression before Victor grabs him and kisses the life out of him.

 

“Yuck, get a room.”

 

“We have one, you just happen to be in it too,” Victor points out, his eyes still on Yuuri and full of heat.

 

“Yes, fucking _unfortunately.”_

 

Yuri’s still staring at Yuuri. Apparently he didn’t know just what Yuuri’s capable of. Yuuri smirks, and wanders past him to go start packing up.

 

They drive for a while, eventually finding a motel slightly off the beaten track and settle down for the night there. Yuri keeps throwing glaces at Yuuri. Yuuri goes to clean up the moment they arrive, letting Victor and Yuri take watch.

 

Victor finds him after his shower, free of the blood and looking soft in the mirror. Victor nuzzles his bare throat, his hands creeping round to grope Yuuri’s stomach and chest.

 

“Vitya,” Yuuri says in an admonishing tone that only makes Victor bite his neck. “Yuri’s in the next room.”

 

“So? He can go out.”

 

Victor’s accent always gets a little thicker when he’s sleepy or aroused. It makes Yuuri’s spine curve involuntarily, loving the deep, gravelly rumble of it, how it hints at sex and danger.

 

“Hmm,” Yuuri muses, as Victor fiddles with the towel secured around his hips. “I suppose I could let you bend me over this counter.”

 

“God, moya zvezda, yes, please, let me.”

 

Victor begging and breathless is Yuuri’s favourite, and he smirks as he pushes his hips back in invitation.

 

Victor takes his time to prepare him, always diligent in this. He also eats Yuuri out, which has Yuuri’s moans at a high, reedy pitch, loving this second only to Victor’s cock inside him.

 

They fuck hard and fast, Victor slamming in repeatedly and watching Yuuri’s face in the mirror as it goes slack, dazed.

 

They take a shower together because Yuuri’s all messy again, and end up doing another round with Yuuri lifted up in Victor’s arms, his back against the shower wall. Victor’s back and arm muscles are tense with the effort of holding Yuuri up, and slick with water. Yuuri digs his fingers into the hard muscle, leans forward to suck on the wet skin.

 

When they step out into the room together, Yuri has indeed vacated it, no doubt hanging around the vending machine or sitting in the car.

 

They fold themselves into one narrow single bed, hardly made for two grown men to share, but they make it work. Victor’s too leggy really, but they fit together anyway. Like puzzle pieces in a game with only two pieces.

 

Victor kisses Yuuri soft and slow, and Yuuri luxuriates in it, the shining devotion and attention of this most dangerous man. It’s almost overwhelming, the depth of Victor’s love. But Yuuri let himself sink into it long ago, and responds to it with his fire, whispering for Victor to come and burn, as Victor whispers for him to come drown.

 

The cottage, when they reach it, is as idyllic and peaceful as Victor promised. Nestled among pine trees in the mountains of rural Russia. They run a hacking racket courtesy of Yuuri who has the computer skills, and Victor messes around with banking and exchange rates, laundering dirty money for some very bad people.

 

Yuri is grouchy at not having his own job, but he learns quickly and is soon helping Yuuri with his hacking jobs.

 

One morning Victor strides into their little kitchen with its red chequered table cloth and plants his hands on his hips. Yuuri simply sets his fork down and waits.

 

“I’m taking back the bratva,” Victor states, as Yuuri knew he would.

 

“Very good, dear,” Yuuri agrees, and goes back to eating his eggs.

 

Five years later, Victor is again the head of the Russian bratva, Yuuri at his side and their relations with the Japanese Yakuza very cordial, Mari having taken over from their father after the man stepped aside, unable to accept his son’s relationship with their enemy, but too tired to put up much of a fight. He thought he’d lost Yuuri permanently, so Katsuki Toshiya simply goes quietly. Mari’s far more accepting of their relationship, and the partnership proves immensely fruitful over the years.

 

But while Victor’s the face of the bratva, it’s really Yuuri who runs the show, while Victor takes care of their new baby boy, born from a surrogate. They asked not to know whose he is, but it’s pretty clear from his dark hair and tanned skin that he’s Yuuri’s. But of course this doesn’t matter. He’s just as much Victor’s son.

 

They name him Hoshi, which means star, an echo of Victor’s nickname for Yuuri. And yes, he’s safe, and happy, and loved.

 

The world is finally at peace in the Katsuki-Nikiforov family.

 

Well, just about.

**Author's Note:**

> This may turn into a series, let me know if you'd be interested in that in the comments. Comments and kudos do really encourage us to write and I'm grateful for every one!


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